by Lisa Kleypas
Nick shook his head as he painstakingly reassembled his self-possession. When his gaze returned to hers, his eyes were bright with self-mockery. “Shall we depart, Lady Sydney?”
“Yes, Nick,” she whispered, and reached for his proffered arm.
Sir Ross had prevailed on a friend in the first tier of society, the duke of Newcastle himself, to host the ball at which the long-lost Lord Sydney would be introduced. The duke and duchess were a distinguished pair, a well-respected couple who had been married for forty years. Their unimpeachable reputations would be quite useful in this situation, for a man as infamous as Nick would certainly need sponsors who were above reproach.
The duke’s London estate featured what was tactfully referred to as an “important” house, one so mammoth in scale that visitors frequently lost their way from one circuit of rooms to another. There were innumerable parlors, rooms for breakfasting, supping, or taking coffee, a library, dining hall, and a hunting hall, rooms for studying, smoking, and music. The drawing room was floored with what seemed to be acres of highly polished parquet-work, reflecting light from a half-dozen celestial chandeliers hung two stories above. Lined with balconied galleries above and below, the room provided many pockets of privacy for gossip and intrigue.
The ball was attended by at least five hundred guests, many of them chosen for their glittering social status. As Sophia had remarked dryly to Nick, the invitations to this particular event had become such a mark of distinction that no one dared not to attend, in case it was perceived that they had not been asked.
Nick assumed a properly grateful expression as he was introduced to the duke and duchess, both of whom had known his parents. “You bear a striking resemblance to your late father,” the duchess remarked as Nick bent over her gloved hand. She was a small but elegant woman, her silver head adorned with a diamond tiara, her neck weighted with ropes of pearls so massive that they threatened to topple her off-balance. “Had I not been told of your parentage,” the duchess continued, “I would have known it at once, just by looking at you. Those eyes…yes, you are indeed a Sydney. Such a tragedy for you to lose both parents at once. A boating accident, was it not?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” As Nick had been told, his mother had drowned when a boat had overturned at a water party. His father had died trying to save her.
“A great pity,” the duchess said. “And such a devoted couple, as I recall. But perhaps in that light, it may have been a blessing for them to be taken together.”
“Indeed,” Nick said blandly, concealing a flare of annoyance. In the days just after his parents’ death, the same sentiment had been voiced countless times—how kind fate had been in that regard, to let them die together. Unfortunately neither of the Sydneys’ children had shared that romantic sentiment, wishing instead that at least one of their parents had survived. Nick’s gaze shot to his sister, who stood nearby with Sir Ross. Overhearing the duchess’s comment, Sophia’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she exchanged a subtle, grim smile with Nick.
“Your Grace,” Lottie murmured, smoothing over the moment, “how very kind it is of you to extend your hospitality to us. Lord Sydney and I will always attach the memory of your generosity to this special occasion.”
Obviously flattered, the duchess paused to speak with Lottie for a few moments, while the duke favored Nick with a congratulatory smile. “An exceptional choice for a wife, Sydney,” the elderly man remarked. “Poised, unaffected, and quite lovely. You are quite fortunate.”
No one would have disagreed with that, least of all Nick. Lottie was a revelation this evening, her gown stylish but not too sophisticated, her smile easy, her posture as regal as that of a young queen. Neither the grandeur of their surroundings nor the hundreds of curious gazes seemed to disturb her composure. She was so polished and immaculately pretty that no one suspected the layer of steel beneath her exterior. No one would ever guess that she was the kind of young woman who would have defied her parents and lived by her own wits for two years…the kind of woman who could hold her own against a hardened Bow Street runner.
As the duke continued to receive guests, the duchess continued to speak with Lottie, the gray head inclined toward the pale golden one.
Sophia drifted closer to Nick, employing her fan to mask the movement of her lips as she murmured to him, “I told you so.”
Nick smiled wryly, recalling his sister’s claim that Lottie would prove to be a great asset to him. “Those are without doubt the four most irritating words in the English language, Sophia.”
“She is a dear creature, and far too good for you,” his sister informed him with amusement dancing in her eyes.
“I’ve never claimed otherwise.”
“And she seems rather fond of you,” Sophia continued, “so if I were you, I would not take my good fortune for granted.”
“Fond,” Nick repeated warily, aware of a sudden increase of his pulse. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, the other day she—” Sophia broke off as she caught sight of a newly arrived couple. “Oh, there is Lord Farrington! Excuse me, dear, as Lady Farrington has been ailing for the past month, and I want to ask after her health.”
“Wait,” Nick demanded. “Finish what you were going to say!” But Sophia had already glided away with Sir Ross in tow, leaving Nick to seethe in frustration.
When Lottie was released from the duchess’s attentions, she took Nick’s arm and accompanied him as they mingled with various groups. She was adept at light social conversation, talking amiably without becoming drawn into a lengthy discussion, moving gracefully among the guests and remembering people they had met on previous occasions. It was clear that had Nick wished to leave her while he joined his friends in the smoking and billiards rooms, Lottie would have been perfectly comfortable. However, as Nick saw the number of covetous gazes following his wife’s every movement, he remained close beside her, occasionally resting his hand at the small of her back in a territorial gesture that was well understood by every man who saw it.
An ebullient melody filled the air, provided by an orchestra that was carefully concealed by a forest of potted plants in one of the upper balconies. As they made their way through the crowded ballroom, Lottie flirted with Nick discreetly, laying her hand on his chest in provocative little touches, rising to whisper in his ear until her lips brushed his skin. Semi-aroused and thoroughly fascinated, Nick breathed in the scent of white roses from her hair and stood close enough to see the faint dusting of perfumed powder that had collected in the gentle valley between her breasts.
Suddenly Lottie’s attention was caught by a small group of women, two of whom were staring at her with obvious excitement. “Nick, I see some friends that I haven’t set eyes on since I was at Maidstone’s. I must speak with them—why don’t you join your gentlemen friends? You certainly don’t want to listen to us gossip about our school days.”
Nick was disgruntled by his wife’s clear desire to be rid of him. “Fine,” he said curtly. “I’ll go to the billiards room.”
Lottie shot him a provocative glance from beneath her lashes. “Promise you will come find me for the first waltz?”
Realizing that he was being adeptly managed, Nick grumbled an assent and watched Lottie glide toward the group of waiting women. To his astonishment, he stood there feeling completely bereft. He was so mesmerized by one small woman that he could scarcely think straight. He, who was so eternally self-assured, was in danger of being led around by the nose by his own wife.
Brooding over the alarming discovery, Nick heard his brother-in-law’s deep voice beside him.
“It happens to the best of us, Sydney.”
Nick turned to face Sir Ross. Uncannily, Sir Ross seemed to understand exactly what he was feeling. His gray eyes gleamed with amusement as he continued in a tone that was not unsympathetic. “No matter how strong our resolve, we eventually find ourselves enslaved by the compulsive preference for one particular woman. You’ve been caught, my friend. You may as
well reconcile yourself to it.”
Nick did not bother trying to deny it. “I was going to be so much smarter than you,” he muttered.
Sir Ross grinned. “I prefer to think that intelligence has nothing to do with it. For if a man’s intellect is measured by his ability to remain untouched by love, I would be the greatest idiot alive.”
The word love made Nick flinch. “What would it take to make you shut your gob, Cannon?”
“A glass of 1805 Cossart-Gordon would probably do it,” came the amiable reply. “And if I’m not mistaken, they’ve just brought out a case in the billiards room.”
“Let’s go, then,” Nick said, and they strode from the ballroom together.
“Lottie Howard!” Two young women rushed over to her, and they clasped hands tightly, sharing grins of barely suppressed glee. Were it not for their strict training at Maidstone’s, the three of them would have squealed in a most unladylike manner.
“Samantha,” Lottie said warmly, gazing at the tall, attractive brunette who had always been like a kind older sister to her. “And Arabella!” Arabella Markenfield looked exactly the same as she had at school…pretty and a bit plump, with strawberry blond ringlets that were perfectly arranged on her porcelain forehead.
“I’m Lady Lexington now,” Samantha informed her with considerable pride. “I caught an earl, no less, with a good, sound fortune.” Slipping an arm around Lottie’s waist, she turned her slightly. “He’s standing right there, close to the conservatory doors. The tall, balding one. Do you see him?”
Lottie nodded as she caught sight of a somber-looking gentleman who appeared to be in his early forties, with large eyes that seemed slightly out of proportion to his long, narrow face. “He looks to be a very pleasant gentleman,” Lottie remarked, and Samantha laughed.
“Very tactful, dear. I’ll be the first to admit that the earl is not much to look at, and he has no sense of humor. However, men with a sense of humor often tend to grate on one’s nerves. And he is an impeccable gentleman.”
“I’m so glad,” Lottie said sincerely, knowing from past conversations with Samantha that such a marriage was very much what she had desired. “And you, Arabella?”
“I married into the Seaforths last year,” Arabella confided with a giggle. “You’ve heard of them, I’m sure…do you remember, one of the daughters was in the class ahead of us…”
“Yes,” Lottie said, recalling that the Seaforths were a great untitled family with a considerable quantity of rich farming land. “Don’t say you married her brother Harry?”
“Just so!” The girl’s ringlets danced merrily on her forehead as she continued with great animation. “Harry is quite fine-looking, though he’s grown as round as a bait-pot since our wedding. And he is ever so charming. Of course I’ll never have a title, but there are compensations…my own carriage…a real French lady’s maid, not one of those Cockney maids who throw out a see-voo-play or a bon-joor every once in a while!” She giggled at her own wit, and sobered enough to regard Lottie with round, curious eyes. “Dear Lottie, is it true that you are Lady Sydney now?”
“Yes.” Lottie glanced in the direction of her husband, who was walking from the ballroom in the company of Sir Ross, their long legs matched at an equal pace. She felt an unexpected rush of pride at the sight of him, so virile and graceful, his bold good looks displayed to their best advantage in the elegant evening clothes.
“Handsome as the devil,” Samantha commented, following her gaze. “Is he as wicked as they say, Lottie?”
“Not in the least,” Lottie lied. “Lord Sydney is as mild-tempered and obliging a gentleman as could be found anywhere.”
It was a case of unfortunate timing that at that moment, Nick happened to glance in her direction. His gaze encompassed her in a smoldering sweep that threatened to singe her clothing to ashes. Knowing what that look meant, and what would happen in the evening hours after the ball, Lottie felt a thrill deep inside, and she struggled to maintain her composure.
Samantha and Arabella, meanwhile, had snapped open their fans and were employing them vigorously. “Good heavens,” Samantha exclaimed in a low voice, “the way he looks at you is positively indecent, Lottie.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lottie said demurely, though she felt her own cheeks heating.
Arabella giggled behind her own painted silk fan. “The only time I’ve ever seen that expression on my Harry’s face is when a plate of Yorkshire pudding is set before him.”
Samantha’s dark eyes were keen with interest. “I was under the impression that Lord Radnor owned you part and parcel, Lottie. How did you escape him? And where have you been these past two years? And most of all, how in heaven’s name did you manage to catch a man like Nick Gentry—and is this long-lost-lord business some bit of trickery?”
“No,” Lottie said instantly, “he truly is Lord Sydney.”
“Did you know that he was a viscount when you married?”
“Well, no.” Lottie strove to offer the simplest explanation possible. “To start with, you know that I left school to avoid marrying Lord Radnor—”
“The definitive scandal of Maidstone’s,” Arabella interrupted. “They still talk of it, I’m told. None of the teachers or staff could conceive that sweet, obedient Charlotte Howard would simply disappear like that.”
Lottie paused in momentary embarrassment. She was far from proud of her actions—it was simply that she’d had no other choice. “To avoid being found, I changed my name and went to work as a companion to Lady Westcliff in Hampshire—”
“You worked?” Arabella repeated in awe. “My word, how you must have suffered.”
“Not unduly,” Lottie replied with a wry smile. “The Westcliffs were kind, and I liked the dowager countess quite well. It was while I was in her employ that I made the acquaintance of Mr. Gentry—er, Lord Sydney. He proposed quite soon after we met, and…” She paused, an image flashing in her mind of that evening in Lord Westcliff’s library, the firelight playing over Nick’s face as he bent to her breast…
“And I accepted,” she said hastily, feeling her face turn fiery red.
“Hmmm.” Samantha smiled at Lottie’s discomfiture, seeming to guess the reason behind it. “Apparently it was a memorable proposal.”
“Were your parents terribly put out with you?” Arabella asked.
Lottie nodded, reflecting with sad irony that “put out” was singularly inadequate to describe her family’s reaction.
Samantha’s face was grave with understanding. “They won’t be angry forever, dear,” she said with a pragmatism that was far more comforting than sympathy would have been. “If your husband is half as wealthy as the rumors indicate, the Howards will eventually prove more than happy to claim him as a son-in-law.”
The three of them conversed for a while, eagerly becoming reacquainted and making plans to call on each other soon. Lottie was unaware of time passing until she heard the orchestra begin to play a newly popular waltz called “Blossoms in the Spring,” a melody that immediately inspired a host of eager couples to begin whirling through the room. Wondering if Nick would remember to dance the first waltz with her, Lottie decided to look for him at the side of the room. Excusing herself from the company of her friends, she walked along one of the first-floor galleries, which was separated from the dance floor by carved wooden railings and bowers of greenery and pink roses. A few couples were absorbed in private conversations, half-concealed by the massive flower arrangements, and Lottie averted her gaze with a slight smile as she passed them.
She was startled by a sudden touch on her arm, and she stopped with a jolt of anticipation, expecting that Nick had found her. But as she glanced down at the growing pressure on her gloved wrist, she did not see Nick’s large, square hand. A set of long, almost skeletal fingers had wrapped around her wrist, and with a shock of cold horror, she heard the voice that had haunted her nightmares for years.
“Did you think you could avoid me forever, Char
lotte?”
Chapter Twelve
Bracing herself, Lottie looked up into the face of Arthur, Lord Radnor. Time had wrought an astonishing difference in him, as if ten years had passed rather than two. He was unnaturally pale, his skin the color of sun-bleached bone, his dark brows and eyes standing out in jarring contrast. Harsh grooves of bitterness divided his face into angular sections.
Lottie had known the inevitability of seeing Lord Radnor someday. In the back of her mind, she had assumed that he would regard her with hatred. But what she saw in his eyes was far more alarming. Hunger. A voracity that had nothing to do with sexual desire but something far more consuming. Instinctively she understood that his longing to own her had only intensified during her absence, and that her betrayal of him had given him the deadly resolve of an executioner.
“My lord,” she acknowledged, her voice steady even though her lips were trembling. “You are importunate. Release my arm, please.”
Ignoring her request, Radnor pulled her into the concealment of a greenery-laded column, his fingers tightening into a bruising vise. Lottie went with him easily, determined that this ugliness from her past would not result in a scene that would mar an evening so important for her husband. Ridiculous, that she should be so afraid in a room filled with people. Radnor certainly could not, would not, harm her here. If they were alone, however, she believed that he would feel absolutely justified in wrapping those long fingers around her throat and choking the last breath from her.
His gaze sliced over her. “My God, what has he turned you into? I can smell the lust on you. Only the thinnest veneer separated you from the ill-bred provincials you came from, and now it has vanished completely.”